


The Human Condition

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Allergies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Mark of Cain, Non-Sexual Bondage, Season/Series 09, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you doing here?” Castiel demands.</p>
<p>Crowley lifts his handcuffed wrists and gives them a jingle. “Serving as the Hardy Boys’ house plant at the moment." He can only raise his arms chest-high. Their adjoining chain is latched to the leg of the couch. “And you are?”</p>
<p>“Living here,” Castiel answers. “For now. Until…” He trails off. The lapse is covered with a glower.</p>
<p>“You lost your grace, then,” Crowley guesses.</p>
<p>“I need coffee,” Castiel grumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Human Condition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt:
> 
> _You know what there's not enough out there? Crowley flirting with human!Cas who's adorable and oblivious to what the sight of him, early morning, with full bed hair and wearing nothing more than tiny boxers, a t-shirt and a wide open robe does to Crowley who's hanging around the bunker for plot reasons. I'd like to picture Crowleu swaying between wanting to eat the gorgeous moron while attempting to not to come on too hard given the power inbalance and Cas being sort of tramatized from the fall._

Finally, Crowley succeeds. 

Not in freeing himself, no. He needs more patience and cunning to get out of these warded cuffs. But he does convince the boys to move him from their sex dungeon to the study. It is roomier and well-lit. Crowley can stretch his legs on the couch. Blissful! And he has better reading material.

Namely, porn. And lots of it. Crowley has had his disagreements with Squirrel, but Dean’s taste in rags is commendable. He turns the issue of Busty Asian Beauties sideways and opens the centerfold. “Hello, Miss September,” he says, whistling low.

Crowley looks up at a pitter of footsteps. It’s about that time, isn’t it? The waking hour? Will it be Moose or Squirrel gracing his presence?

Neither, as fate would have it. It is Castiel, in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, hair pointing in fifty directions. Eyes red from a lack of sleep. …Sleep?

Crowley cocks his head. The leather warded collar pulls at his neck. “Human?” he wonders.

Castiel jumps as if poked with a hot brand. He clutches his chest and stares into the study. 

But his wide-eyed surprise quickly frosts to anger. “What are you doing here?” Castiel demands.

Crowley lifts his handcuffed wrists and gives them a jingle. “Serving as the Hardy Boys’ house plant at the moment." He can only raise his arms chest-high. Their adjoining chain is latched to the leg of the couch. “And you are?”

“Living here,” Castiel answers. “For now. Until…” He trails off. The lapse is covered with a glower.

“You lost your grace, then,” Crowley guesses.

“I need coffee,” Castiel grumbles. He removes himself quickly. Crowley hears rustling and clanking from the kitchen.

A mortal Castiel? Ripe for the taking! 

But then, so is Crowley. What terrible timing. Can’t be helped, Crowley supposes. He returns to the porn with a sigh.

But concentrating on the chesty loves is more difficult now. The Almighty Castiel, trudging in after a bad night’s sleep. In his underwear, no less? Ridiculous.

Chuckling, Crowley closes the magazine beside him on the couch and waits for Castiel’s return. The bird will not want to approach again, Crowley knows. Not without the brothers as a buffer. But he does come back, as Crowley knows he will. He can't resist.

When Castiel returns, he is holding a large ceramic mug. He sips from it, a room of safety between himself and the bound King of Hell. The coffee warms his cheeks. His hair is still a mess of everywhere.

“Aren’t you worried you'll be tracked here, kitten?” Crowley asks. “These binds cover my power. But you? You may be without your star shine. But you are still Castiel: God’s favorite.”

“You are not the only one warded,” Castiel mutters. “And don't patronize me, Crowley.”

“I am chained to a friggen sofa,” Crowley retorts. “I’ll patronize whenever I feel like it.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He buries his scowl behind a sip of coffee.

The caffeine break gives Crowley time to look Castiel over. His bare feet. The mid-thigh cut of his boxer shorts. His t-shirt, snug to his body’s chest. His hair, a disaster, begging to be stroked back into place. A contrast to the clean, pretty Castiel Crowley knew.

Crowley draws a lip between his teeth. Castiel frowns. “What?”

“Your vessel suits you,” Crowley says.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, stops, and closes it again. Eyes narrowed, he leaves Crowley alone in the study.

Crowley smirks and sinks back on the couch. This will be interesting indeed.

***

Crowley is so. infinitely. bored. It does not help that his hosts choose to ignore his existence. They stroll around him as if he does not exist. Converse with each other, pretend not to hear a word he says.

Crowley is fine with torture. Whips, chains, the whole bit. That torture would be preferable to this torture… Which is not really torture, but is still friggen torture! Damn Moose and that human blood. This is all the behemoth’s fault. If not for the trials, Crowley would not be in this mess. Trapped by the Winchesters, ignored, treated like nothing. Crowley’s feelings are hurt. Crowley’s _feelings_!

His rare pleasure comes when the boys interact close enough to be heard. And when these conversations involve his favorite fallen idiot.

Today, Castiel manages to dribble half a glass of water down his chin. He normally shows better decorum, but thirst is a new concept to Castiel. Particularly, heightened thirst on a hot day. After stupidly being convinced to jog with Gigantor.

Sam laughs as Castiel scrubs his wet face. “We should set you up with a water bottle, Cas. Til you get used to hydrating, anyway.”

“I don’t see how you manage it,” Castiel offers. “You are larger than my vessel, yet you do not feel this same thirst.”

“Yeah well, I’ve been working out all my life,” Sam says. He puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and smiles. “I’m guessing angels don’t worry too much about keeping in shape.”

“My natural shape is over 100 stories high.” Castiel’s mouth dips. “Was…over 100 stories high. There was no physical form to improve on. Yes, some maintenance was required. But it was nothing like humanity’s need for physical fitness.”

Crowley wishes Squirrel were here. Sam is far too kind. Castiel is standing in a puddle like a toddler. Dean, at least, would make the requisite house training jokes.

But Moose is useful for one thing. He follows up on angel maintenance, something Crowley also finds curious. “What’s there to maintain if you don’t have a physical body?”

Castiel again tilts his head. “Speed drills,” he explains. “Wing care. Flight. Combat. Our strength is in speed. How fast one can travel or strike.”

“It’s done wonders for your figure,” Crowley says from the living room. He knows they will ignore him, so their silence is no surprise. 

Crowley takes the opportunity to examine the wet spots on Castiel’s t-shirt. Damp dots of moisture on his chest and stomach. No doubt, the water has sunk through to his skin. Cool welts on an otherwise sweat-hot body. Crowley smirks. His cuffs rattle in his lap.

“Keep it down, Crowley,” Sam warns.

“Just getting comfortable,” Crowley says. His eyes stay on Castiel. 

The ex-angel frowns at him from across the room.

***

Progress! Charlie’s Angels require the study for research. And they are too lazy to relocate Crowley before they begin. 

Or perhaps they prefer these close quarters with the bound King of Hell. Maybe they want to rub Crowley’s face in his own situation. Chained to a sofa while the three of them go about their merry lives, ugh. 

Who knows what has become of Crowley's kingdom by now? If it is still standing. Abaddon will drive Hell and everything it stands for to the ground. All Crowley’s work, lost to some psychotic Knight. Must his life always be ruined by gingers? 

Everything goes smoothly, until, "Ah!”

Crowley eyes snap in the direction of the dodo-bird. Dean and Sam share his reaction, facing Castiel with alarm.

“What?” Dean demands.

“You okay, Cas?” Sam chimes in.

Castiel holds up a finger, a single bead of blood at the tip. “The book…attacked me,” he mumbles.

The brothers share a glance, as if asking permission. They both decide to laugh. “It’s a paper cut, Cas,” Sam says.

Castiel looks between the two brothers, his finger still extended. He tilts his head at the little bead of blood. “How does something so small cause so much pain?” he wonders. 

Crowley’s eyes zero in on the drop of blood. His throat goes dry, and his pupils widen. Human blood. Castiel’s human blood. It’s a wonder Crowley’s stomach does not rumble. Or that other parts of him do not…rise to the occasion.

“Stop it, Crowley.”

It takes Crowley a moment to realize Castiel has spoken to him. His glare is sharp as a twin pair of angel blades. 

The brothers, though confused, echo the ex-angel’s disapproving look. Lovely. Watch dogs.

“Stop what?” Crowley snaps. “Did I say anything about your latest mess?”

“Stop looking at me.” Castiel sits up straight in his chair, eyes dark with anger.

Crowley cannot bring himself to care. Castiel is all ape - sickly human flesh, powerless beneath his skin. He is a disappointment. So much less than he should be. How far has he fallen since the days when he stood by Crowley’s side? They were so much stronger together, angel and demon. They could have had this world on its knees!

Ah well. No use crying over spilled milk.

“Stop looking at him, Crowley,” Dean barges in. The moron. He has no idea what has been between them. Or what still is.

“I’ve got an idea,” Crowley says. “Let’s play a little game called - _Why the Bloody Hell Am I Still Alive_!?”

Sam has the nerve to huff. “You’re a piece of crap, Crowley,” he says. “But you’re less terrible than Abaddon-”

“So you’ve said,” Crowley cuts in. “You’re going to use me to lure Abaddon. You’re going to use me for information. You’re going to use me, because you can. Yet, here I sit. Day in and day out. Cramped in this chair, not a word in my direction. You have not used me to lure Abaddon. You have not used me to do anything other than collect dust from this damned couch.”

“Write me a fucking sob story.” Dean rolls his eyes. “You wanted out of the cell, you’re out. We gave you what you wanted-”

“If you don’t intend to strike against Abaddon, just end this damn thing!” Crowley shouts. “What are you waiting for?”

Sam slams his Encyclopedia of Whatever closed, ridiculous Men of Letters. The brothers glower at him, then rise and leave the study.

Castiel stands too. His narrowed eyes are on Crowley as he sucks on his cut finger.

Crowley returns his glare. But he can't help his longing glance at that mouth. Clamped around a finger wet with human blood. One drop, just a single drop…

“Go on,” Crowley mutters. “Bask in this moment of triumph, Castiel.”

“They won’t kill you, Crowley,” Castiel responds. “I won’t let them.” With this, he removes himself from the room.

Crowley scowls after him, grumbling under his breath. Then, he frowns. _I won’t let them._ Is this a taunt? Or reassurance?

***

Crowley is not sure where the boys disappear to. Perhaps they are on one of their many ghost hunts. Saving people, hunting things, the family business, blah blah blah.

When Crowley looks up from his prison-couch, Castiel is walking into the study alone. The ex-angel sits at the table, a dress shirt in his hands. 

He begins to do something, a soft movement of his fingers. It takes Crowley a moment to realize that Castiel is sewing by hand. Weaving a needle and thread to bind a fallen button to his shirt.

Crowley watches. He does so out of boredom. Anything is better than staring at the walls, the floors, or his own fingers.

But Crowley watches for other reasons. Sewing is a quiet, somber act. Castiel could repair attire with a blink before. Now, even small details are a chore to maintain. There is also Crowley’s curiosity. Why, building empty, has Castiel chosen to perform this task in front of him? Why not in his bedroom, or any other corner of this ridiculous bunker. There must be a reason why Castiel has brought this activity here. To him.

Crowley wants to ask. Asking will lead to conversation. Crowley has been painfully deprived of this over the past…month? Two months? 

Crowley is unaware of the time, he realizes. Light never seems to change in this blasted room. It is an improvement over the boys’ dungeon, that's for sure. But it is still a numbing exercise.

His eyes settle on Castiel’s hands. The gentle swim of needle and thread. A mundane process. It fascinates Crowley. He watches with rapt attention as fingers move in and out . Up and down. Castiel’s eyes are hidden behind his lashes as he works.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asks finally. 

Castiel does not look at him. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” he observes. “The emphasis they put on appearance. The value in one look over another. One shirt costs a few dollars more, another is shamed.”

Crowley watches his fingers. “You're not here to discuss fashion,” he murmurs. 

There is pleasure in this activity. But he would prefer Castiel’s hands in other places. They would look far better sliding across the shirt Crowley wears now. 

Castiel smiles at him. Crowley is suspicious.

“You looked lonely,” Castiel says.

Crowley barks a laugh. “Yes, loneliness is the height of my problems, you idiot.”

“I can leave, if my company is not welcome.”

Damn him. Crowley glares. “That won’t be necessary,” he mutters. Each word is a stab to his pride.

Castiel chuckles and returns to his sewing in silence. Crowley tries to keep his head turned. But he finds himself drawn back in. His vessel has always had quite lovely hands. 

When Castiel completes his task, he places needle and thread beside the repaired garment. Crowley snorts. “Goodie for you." 

"You were human once,” Castiel says. When he looks up, his expression is thoughtful. “How did you stand it?”

“When I was human, I had no experience as anything else,” he replies. “I didn't stand it. I just was.”

Castiel nods. He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of his folded shirt. “It would be difficult to feel one new thing a day,” he says. “But every minute, I am hit by some sensation I have never experienced. I’m not able to explain to Sam or Dean. To feel hungry, versus starving. To feel a chill, versus cold. To feel sadness, or a more desperate need to…to burst. Or burrow into the earth.”

Crowley wonders where this is going. “Humanity is a disease,” he states. “It's horrible. And it lingers.”

Castiel observes him quietly. Crowley frowns and looks away. When he turns his head, he feels the pull of the collar around his neck.

“Do you feel things, Crowley?” Castiel asks.

“What's the point of this?” Crowley demands. “To rub my face in my predicament?”

Castiel seems surprised by the accusation. “No. I…" he falters. "I feel things, Crowley. I thought you might understand.” Each word becomes a greater self-admonishment.

Crowley raises a brow. “What things?”

They are apparently not things for sharing in front of the Wonder Twins. The door to the bunker opens, and Castiel is on his feet with his shirt. He is out of sight by the time Den and Sam enter.

Crowley offers a bitter wave to the returning brothers.

“Honey, we’re home,” Dean deadpans. Crowley does not miss the gun holstered at his waist. Or what looks suspiciously like a blood stain on Moose’s shirt.

Crowley chuckles and closes his eyes. Castiel feels things. Curious indeed.

***

This is not the only time the boys leave Castiel alone in the bunker. And it is not the only time Castiel comes to Crowley. Castiel does not return to engage Crowley in conversation, though. His research requires him to scour for reading materials in the study. 

Sometimes, Castiel retreats to his room as soon as he finds the journal he seeks. Other times, he sits at the center table and begins to read. He does not offer commentary or ask Crowley for his thoughts. But Castiel sits with him all the same. 

Castiel stays for hours. Day must turn to night, though it is impossible to tell in this insufferable cave. His research drags so long that Crowley tires just watching him. He reclines on the sofa and closes his eyes. 

Even with these wards, Crowley has no need for sleep. But under the dark solace of his eyelids, he can allow himself to dream of better days. Master of the Underworld, power coursing through his vessel. 

“Is there a plan to move on Abaddon?” Crowley mutters. “Any plan at all?”

Castiel does not answer him. It would be no surprise if Castiel chose not to speak. He has not said much since their talk of feelings. Crowley wonders if the bird’s silence is a result of that chat. Perhaps he's gone word-shy. Poor duckie.

But a glance tells Crowley that Castiel is not quiet by choice. He has dozed off, cheek propped on a fist. His head nods slowly downward, book still open beneath him.

Crowley raises a brow. There are bags under Castiel’s eyes and an unnatural paleness to his skin. It hits Crowley just how many nights Castiel has conducted research in this manner. How many nights, too, that the brothers have been out doing who-knows-what.

There is progress with Abaddon, he realizes. The trio is on to something.

“Castiel,” Crowley says.

Castiel exhales. A few more minutes of this, and the bird will faceplant into the pages of his journal. The image tickles Crowley. But something prompts him to try again. “Castiel,” he repeats, louder.

This time, Castiel’s head bobs upward. He mumbles surprise as he blinks. There is a pink, hand-shaped welt on his cheek. “What-”

“I've not been human for many years,” Crowley remarks. “But I believe beds exist for the purpose of sleeping. And other, more enjoyable activities.” Castiel shoots Crowley a drowsy glare. Adorable. 

Castiel stifles a yawn behind his forearm. “There is work to do,” he mutters, squinting at the page in front of him.

Crowley snorts. “Mortality does have an adverse effect on productivity.”

Castiel yawns again and gives his eyes a more thorough scrub. They come away bleary and red. Crowley can’t help but chuckle. “Have you ever heard the term ‘power nap,’ Castiel?”

Castiel tilts his head. “A short…powerful…sleep?”

His idiocy is far more fetching than it should be. Crowley blames these blasted wards for his sentimentality. “It's a short sleep, yes. A change of batteries, if you will.”

“So I can continue my research?”

It can learn. “Cookie for you,” Crowley says.

The angel he once knew would balk at any insinuation of weakness. That Castiel considers the idea betrays his exhaustion. “The bedroom would not be an wise place for this power nap,” Castiel observes. “That is a place for a full night’s sleep, which I do not want or need.”

Crowley considers explaining the concept of an alarm clock to the fool. But he is much more interested in continuing this current line of thought. “What other options do you have? Or will you use your hand as a pillow again?”

Castiel gives him a wary look. “Is the…couch comfortable?”

Crowley’s smile turns full-blown Cheshire cat. “Yes, Cas,” he says. “Quite comfortable.” Castiel’s glower says he is completely on to Crowley’s line of thought. But, despite this, he does not turn down the idea. Fascinating. 

These feelings Castiel mentioned… Are they playing a part in this? 

To get what he wants, Crowley must do something he abhors. He must play nice. Crowley swallows back his smile and offers a noncommittal shrug. “I'm bound, Castiel,” he assures. “What can I do to you?”

“You won't do anything to me,” Castiel mutters. This response makes no sense to Crowley. If Castiel does not fear an attack, what is he worried about? 

“Are the boys expected back soon?” Crowley wonders. Castiel shakes his head 'no.’ Concern over being caught by the brothers was Crowley’s last guess. He is stumped.

Castiel wears his worried expression to the couch. He leaves the book on the desk, fully committed to this sleeping business. Castiel sits beside Crowley on the cushions. He looks down at the floor, and around him at the length of couch. 

Then at Crowley, who raises an amused brow. “Do you sleep sitting up?” Crowley asks. Castiel is clearly irked by the question. But he still removes his shoes and stretches his legs up on the couch. 

He starts to recline on Crowley's shoulder, before grumbling, “You need to move.”

“Well then.” Crowley fakes a huff for Castiel’s benefit. It will do him no good to show the bird how much he is enjoying this. He turns as much as his chains will allow, angling his body to sink against the corner of the couch. 

Castiel tucks his head against Crowley’s shoulder, rather than leaning back into his lap. Some things are still above a former Angel of the Lord, Crowley supposes. “Comfortable, love?”

Castiel’s reply is an exhale. “Yes.” After a moment of silence, he adds, “How will I know when this power nap is finished?”

“You’re the human here,” Crowley replies. “I suppose your body will tell you.”

“My body…” Castiel blinks up at Crowley with a frown. “Everything is so strange.”

“Yes, it is,” Crowley agrees. He can think of nothing stranger than his former business partner pressed against his side like old times. 

And fading. Castiel’s breaths become a soft snore, chest rising and falling evenly.

If only Crowley had use of his power now. He just needs one bite to have enough blood to summon his minions. Even without full strength, he could hurt Castiel. Or find some way to secure his escape.

Crowley rests a hand in Castiel’s hair. Awkwardly, he begins to stroke. Castiel sighs and tucks closer to his shoulder. Some strange, forgotten thing tightens in Crowley’s chest. This is not good. He drags a thumb across the worry lines on Castiel’s forehead.

This is not good at all. 

***

There is a party in the kitchen, and - surprise - Crowley is not invited. 

He flips through his latest porn magazine. It seems little Squirrel has gone soft on him. Soft enough, at least, to drop a new issue of Busty Asian Beauties beside the King of Hell a night ago.   
“Better not be sticky,” Crowley told him. He did not miss Dean’s smirk before Big Brother Winchester left the room.

Crowley does his best to tune out the noise, but his patience is at an all-time low. And patience has never been one of Crowley’s virtues. Not that Crowley has any virtues. But if he did, they would not include patience! 

Laughter carries long into the night. Crowley grinds his teeth and flips angrily past the centerfold of Miss December… December, eh? He remembers Miss September, October, and November. But has it only been four months? Crowley’s imprisonment feels like years.

Footsteps stumble from the kitchen. They belong to an ex-angel who has clearly been hitting the sauce. Castiel’s face is red, and his eyes are glassy. There is a bottle of whiskey in his hand, danging half-full from his fingertips. Given his appearance, Crowley can guess what became of the other half.

“What’s the occasion, love?” Crowley asks. “Not a celebration of my death, I hope.” Castiel laughs as if Crowley is hilarious. Which he is. But Heaven-sent creatures normally do not share his humor. 

Crowley watches the mortal-bound angel close the distance to the couch. The whiskey scent on him is embarrassingly cheap. Couldn’t those Men of Letters stock this place with decent booze? 

“I’ve been drunk before,” Castiel declares. “But it took a liquor store. My Father didn’t care. About me, the boys, or anyone but Himself.”

Crowley shrugs. “My mother was a whore, if it makes you feel better.”

Castiel does not offer a yea or nay on this sentiment. But he does take a tortuously long drink from the bottle. His head tips back like an adult video, the flush on his cheeks deepening. He wobbles against an arm of the couch.

Crowley chuckles despite himself. “You'll feel like piss in the morning, pet.”

He expects Castiel to snark at him. Or perhaps take his head off with an angel blade. Or smash the liquor bottle over his skull. He expects any number of responses from his old partner. None are the scenario that actually happens.

Castiel steps around to the front of the couch and straddles Crowley’s waist. His knees tuck around Crowley’s body, liquor-wet lips inches from Crowley’s own.

“What on Earth…” Crowley is not complaining, of course. After months of entrapment, he welcomes this pressure on his vessel’s most vulnerable points. 

“Why do you look at me?” Castiel asks. He sloshes the bottle in Crowley’s direction, spilling a drop on Crowley’s suit jacket. This would normally miff the King of Hell to no end. Given the circumstances, he is willing to forgive a few spots on his attire.

“Burden of taking human form."

“It has nothing to do with humanity,” Castiel says. Or slurs, rather. “You look at me. Why do you look at me?”

“I’m bored,” Crowley replies. His cuffed hands sit on Castiel’s stomach. “And your vessel is amusing.” These are not the reasons, of course. But Crowley has no desire to venture into more vulnerable territory. Not when the former angel is giving him such a look. Blue eyes hot and dark, a slow drag of his tongue across his whiskey-wet mouth.

“You expect me to believe that?” Castiel asks.

Crowley chuckles again, quieter this time. “You’re sitting in my lap, love,” he remarks. “I’m not sure what to expect of you.” But he has an idea. 

This idea proves correct when Castiel lowers his lips to Crowley’s. The whiskey is horrid, as Crowley imagined. But he is willing to tolerate it, if only for the taste that comes after the cheap booze. Castiel’s tongue in his mouth. And a hand raking through his hair. 

Crowley drags his fingers down Castiel’s body. His cuffs jingle at the front of Castiel’s pants. Castiel groans and laughs in tandem. “I feel everything.” He sounds amazed, excited, and so very drunk. Crowley wants to throw him on the couch and revisit their greatest hits.

But he can’t, of course. These blasted chains have never been more of a burden. Crowley strains against them, growling when they clank their refusal. He bites at the fool’s jaw, only to feel the pull of the warded collar around his neck. Castiel drag fingers across the leather, making it scrape over his throat.

Crowley hooks fingers into any clothing he can grab and pulls. He wants as much weight on him as possible. He hungers for every bit of friction between their bodies. Craves every surprised gasp that dribbles from the angel’s drink-loosened lips.

Only, Castiel’s hands are not against his neck anymore. An angel blade is. One held by a gargantuan, pissed off baby Winchester. The elder neanderthal glares on.

“Cas, let’s go.” Sam is so quiet, Crowley actually thinks Moose has slicing his head off in tonight’s agenda.

Castiel makes a precious moron. He looks between the brothers with bleary-eyed confusion. “What do you mean?” he asks. It is such a brain dead question. Crowley risks beheading by snorting at the idiot.

“No drunk sex with the King of Hell,” Dean barks. Always count on Squirrel to keep it simple. “Up. Now, Cas.”

“Funny, I can’t tell who the prisoner is anymore.” This won’t earn Crowley any brownie points. But, when one is royally fucked anyway, might as well use lemons to make someone else sour.

“You, shut up,” Sam grits. He fists his free hand in the back of Castiel’s shirt. The angel stumbles back, tipping against the Giant’s frame. His mouth is still so sinfully wet. Crowley gives his own lips a mournful lick. Whore of a mother, he wants Castiel. Being deprived this prize has Crowley more than bitter.

“Is…not-drunk sex aloud?” Castiel asks. “I will be sober in approximately four hours. But I will likely be hungover. … I do not know if that still counts as drunk sex-”

“Cas, damn it,” Dean groans.

“What’d you do to him?” Sam asks.

Crowley knows the question is meant for him. But the insanity of it makes him unspeakably angry. It also does something else to him. A sharp twist between his shoulder blades. “You don't know anything,” he mutters. “Leave me.”

“Crowley…” It is Castiel this time.

“Leave me,” Crowley repeats. 

For all his bluster, Crowley must look pitiful. The blade is pulled from his neck. Without another word, the brothers tear Castiel away from him.

***

Crowley never should have complained about the study. At least there, he had light. He had cushions on which to stretch his legs. He could see and hear what was going on around him, even if he was not a participant.

Back in the Winchester family dungeon, it is dark and silent. Crowley sits in the center of the Devil’s trap. He scratches at the collar around his neck. 

Crowley is not human, but physical discomfort still weighs on his vessel. He feels a cramp in his legs and shooting spasms in his back. Crowley kicks one numb foot with the other. They both throb from lack of use.

After the study, this solitude affects Crowley more than it did before. His anger is constant, straining against the warded leather around his neck.

At the time of his transport, his fury was near-paralyzing. It burned against his marked cuffs, cutting so deep that walking became impossible. Crowley stumbled into his seat like a drunk, shaking from his bound rage. The demon screamed in his chest. Hot, blinding, overpowering rage.

“Hey…Crowley…” Sam’s voice, a moment later. Or a minute later? Or…no, much later, wasn’t it? Crowley blinked. His hands wobbled before his eyes.

Those denim-wrapped nightmares looked on in confusion. “Can’t go dying on us if you expect to get Abaddon,” Dean muttered. He played the gruff role to perfection, but Crowley heard concern in his voice. 

Crowley had a wonderful retort lined up, but he lost his bloody chance to use it. He coughed instead, a dry hack that he turned to cover. Weakness in front of the friggen Winchesters, how mortifying. Crowley rested his head against a fist and closed his eyes. Footsteps finally left him in peace.

Now, here he sits. In darkness again.

There is nothing left of Crowley’s kingdom, is there? Crowley has felt this for awhile. Even in these binds, Crowley used to feel his power. The low thrum in his belly kept his spine straight and lifted his head with pride. A chained king is still a king if his palace stands. But it is gone now. He feels its absence like dead love.

Maybe this is the cause of Crowley’s sudden weakness. The coughing, the pain. Maybe it is not just this room. It is loss of self in every sense of the word. His power, his kingdom, his freedom, gone. How maudlin. Had Crowley heard his own thoughts a year ago, he never would have believed them.

Crowley hates to hear himself think. And he hates that ginger bitch. If only he had one more go at her. His power drained, it would be laughable. But all Crowley needs is one smack across the cheek. It would be worth it, just to see her face.

On occasion, Squirrel comes in with a plastic cup. One of those red college things, as classy as the S&M set up in this torture room. The cup is always filled with water. 

The first time, Crowley observed that he had become the Winchesters’ house plant, then tipped the cup over. The next time or two, Crowley shouted himself hoarse. Raged until his energy waned. Since then, Crowley has learned that fighting is pointless. 

There was a time when he never would have learned. Crowley remained punchy to a fault. It did not matter how long he was trapped. He was always smarter than his foes, more patient, more resilient.

Maybe that is still true. But Crowley’s kingdom is gone, and his power is waning. It has made him too weary to argue.

Dean turns to leave. Crowley clears his throat to stop him. “How is Castiel?” He must look and sound pathetic. 

“He’s good,” Dean replies. No self-righteous response. No anger, no suspicion.

Crowley thinks that he would like to see him. But…no, he doesn’t. Not like this. 

Crowley nods and turns his head. At this broken eye contact, Dean goes.

***

Crowley squints at the page in front of him. It is blurry, faded. “Elomite again?” Crowley asks.

Sam nods. “Can you read it?”

Crowley eyes him with annoyance. He may be a chained dog, but he has not lost the ability to read.

“What do you want?” Sam asks. A sour note has crept into his voice. Never too hard to get under Big Bird’s skin.

Crowley sighs and returns his focus to the page. “It’s a spell,” he says. “For uncovering the First Blade…?” Crowley raises surprised eyes towards Sam. 

Oddly, Baby Winchester looks more perplexed than he is. “You read it without…” Sam purses his lips.

“It’s _Elomite_ ,” Crowley mutters. “I’ve read it before. Why wouldn't I-”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Sam says. “No leg stretching, no walk around the bunker, no…” he trails off again, looking troubled.

Crowley shrugs. “Why are you hunting for the First Blade?”

Sam hesitates, of course. One can’t trust a demon, even one locked in a kink closet.

“The First Blade can kill Abaddon,” Sam finally says. “Right?”

The epitome of humanity, these Winchesters. Trying to be good, yes. Trying to do right. But, in their bravado, they always fail to look at the big picture. As if the First Blade is a tinker toy to be used without consequence! Morons.

Crowley is too tired for this. “Yes,” he says. “The First Blade can kill Abaddon.”

Unfortunately, he has known this creature too long. Sam frowns at the implications in his voice. He grabs a chair and straddles the back so he can face Crowley across a level plane. “But?” he asks.

Crowley groans, rubbing his face. “It isn’t just the First Blade, Moose. It is the wielder of the First Blade. You can’t pick the bloody thing off the street and expect to defeat Abaddon.”

“So who…or what…is the wielder of the First Blade?” Crowley glowers at him, saying nothing. Sam’s eyes narrow. “What do you want?” he asks again.

Crowley turns away with a scowl. All he wants, depressingly, is to be left alone. “The wielder is the one who has the Mark. It connects the First Blade to its Master. Unlocks the full power of the weapon.”

“What Mark?”

“The Mark of Cain,” Crowley says.

In a more cheerful mood, the cartoonish widening of Sam’s eyes would tickle him. “Cain,” Sam echoes. “Like… Cain and Abel. That Cain.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You boys are lucky you’ve got your looks. Yes. That Cain.”

Sam swallows, worry evident. But he presses on, of course. Brave, stupid Moose. “Who has the Mark now?”

Crowley snorts. “It’s called the friggen Mark of Cain for a reason. The Mark of Cain is on _Cain_.”

“But-”

“The First Blade only answers to power of the highest order.” Crowley sinks in his rotten, metal chair. His back twinges in protest. “The kind of power that turns a man into a monster.” He scoffs to himself. “Cain is quite alive.”

“And you can find him!” Sam sounds downright excited.

There are many answers to this questions. Yes, of course Crowley can find Cain. With the right spell, Crowley can find anything or anyone, no matter how long-buried. But Crowley knows what Cain has done, and what he will do. Especially to the creations of his old friend Lucifer. 

“No,” Crowley says.

Sam’s hopeful expression turns dark. “What do you mean 'no’?”

There was a time when Crowley would have risen to meet him. He would have reveled in the opportunity to put the idiot in his place.

But he just can’t muster the energy. Crowley shrugs and glances at his locked hands. “Why don’t you ask your human angel?”

“Crowley-”

“Tell him you and Dean want to find Cain," Crowley grumbles. "He’ll tell you everything you need to know.” He closes his eyes, done with this conversation.

Sam is not. He lingers in front of Crowley, quiet and glaring. 

But after minutes in silence, he finally departs. The lights are turned off. Crowley opens his eyes. Ah, the darkness. His old friend.

***

The first time Castiel comes to him, he does not speak. The bird is a rumpled mess of sweats and scruff. A five o'clock shadow on his face, darker bags beneath his eyes. 

Crowley does not look at him. He keeps his head turned for the hour that Castiel sits across from him. The lights finally go out.

The second time Castiel comes to him, he is wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. An open red flannel shirt covers the tee. Crowley has no doubt that the offensive garment belongs to Squirrel. It hangs big on Castiel. When he sits, he tucks the red around himself. It hides the view presented by Castiel's more form-fitting t-shirt. Ruins the only enjoyment Crowley may have gotten out of this encounter.

This time, Crowley is willing to meet Castiel’s eyes. He looks exhausted, Crowley notes. Crowley is sure he does not look much better.

What an utter mess they are. Didn’t they once hunt Purgatory together? Stand against the Devil and reach for the power of gods?

No matter. Old days and old desires.

Castiel crosses arms over his chest. “I’ve explained to them, about Cain. They understand, but… The situation with Abaddon is dire, Crowley. I’m not sure we have any other option.”

“If that is how you feel, champ, by all means.” Crowley picks his words to injure. _How you feel._

A flicker of something crosses Castiel’s face. Anger, perhaps. Or sadness. “It was not my intent to hurt you,” Castiel mumbles.

Crowley laughs - a full, bitter laugh. “Demons thrive on pain,” he crows. “We _thirst_ for it.” He leans across the table, his warded cuffs clanking on the metal surface. “Why are you here, Cas? Would you like to chat about your besties? Or your hilarious adventures with humanity?”

“I came to apologize,” Castiel mutters. He looks miserable. It should make Crowley giddy as a pony.

Instead, an old anger twists in Crowley’s gut. “Yes,” he spits, “and that’s enough, isn’t it? You’re sorry that I’m in these shackles. You’re sorry that you screwed me over, as you always do. You’re sorry that you’ve killed legions and ruined countless more. Always sorry, aren’t you, Castiel?” Crowley strains against the leather collar on his neck. His balled fists down on the table. “Would you forgive yourself, Castiel? If you were me?”

“No,” Castiel replies. He looks sick.

“Then why are you here?”

Castiel swallows hard and breaks eye contact. His mouth opens, then clamps shut again.

“Answer me,” Crowley demands.

Castiel sighs. “I…wanted you to forgive me.”

“You just said-”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Castiel hisses. “But I _hoped_ , Crowley. I hoped you would forgive me.”

Crowley’s smirk turns sour. He lens back, hands jangling in his lap. “Humanity,” he grumbles.

Castiel nods, glum. “We’ve located Cain,” he says. “We’re going tomorrow. It may be a few days before we return, so.” He stands on this half-finished thought and leaves. 

Perhaps he forgets to shut the lights off, in his rush. Perhaps he does not forget.

***

They are gone longer than a few days. So long that the old bulb blows out from overuse. If Crowley had his power, lighting the room would be a simple flick of the wrist.

What’s the point of nostalgia for days past? These wards have been on too long. Crowley finds himself feeling things that should be beneath him. Curiosity, for example. And concern, as minutes stretch to hours, to days, to…a week? More?

He looks up when the cabinet scrapes from its place before the entrance to his cell. He offers a smile to the brothers when they walk in. “Nice trip?” he asks.

His amusement dies quickly. Something is off. Maybe it is the tired swell around Moose’s eyes. Or Squirrel - paler than his usual GQ shine.

No. It runs deeper. Past the crease lines next to weary frowns. Beyond the blood-stained clothes and the calloused hands.

Hand. To Arm. To… “I’ll be damned,” Crowley breathes. It is perhaps the funniest thing Crowley has ever said. If only any of them were in the mood.

“Can you…get…him…?” Dean sort-of speaks to his behemoth brother. His mumbles are even lower than his usual gravel tone.

He pats Sam’s shoulder, then walks out. Lurches out, more like it, in zombie fashion. Sam flashes his worried puppy-face at his brother.

In the past, Crowley would have mocked this simpering look. But, given these circumstances, Sam’s expression is more than reasonable. 

“He’s got the bloody Mark?” Crowley hisses. “Are you both insane!?”

“Crowley.” Crowley is prepared for vengeful, protect-mode Sam. He is not ready for this unsteady plea. 

Sam bends down and unlocks the shackles binding Crowley to the floor. Crowley’s neck, wrists, and ankles are still cuffed, but he is free to stand. Free to move!

To make matters more perplexing, Moose goes to a far edge of the Devil’s trap. He scuffs through it with his boot, until a smudge mark slices through the ward. Crowley feels a surge, even under the weight of these bonds. He sits up straighter, eyeing Sam with confusion.

Sam inhales shakily. “Cas isn’t…”

Crowley stands at this. When Sam remains mute, Crowley barks, “Cas isn’t _what_?”

“He’s not doing great, Crowley,” Sam says. “He, uh. We were attacked.”

“By Cain?”

“Abaddon. And demons. We…” Sam rakes both hands through his hair, a sure sign that the situation is dire. “Can you… If I take those off…”

No cuffs?

“Show me,” Crowley says. 

He hates himself immediately. Who bloody cares? Crowley can be gone in a blink! Free at last from this blasted cave! But... Damn it all.

Sam leads Crowley out by the chains. Crowley shuffles behind, clanking and jangling. Looking quite the pathetic pet, no doubt. The light of the hallway burns his eyes. He masks them as best he can as he follows Moose. They wind down one hall, then another to the bedrooms. 

Beyond one open door, Squirrel sits on a mattress, hands braced on his knees.

The next door is cracked open. Sam enters first, and Crowley toes in behind him. 

Castiel is a disaster. Bandages are wound mummy-style across his chest and back, soaked through with blood. His ribs are blue and purple. Broken, clearly. One wrist is bandaged. One foot is taped.

“Free me,” Crowley says.

Beside him, Sam swallows. “We know we can’t keep you here once you’re out. We’re okay with that. We…” He lowers his head, sniffing as a cover. “Cas… He’s given us everything.” He blows out a breath and lifts a brave stare. “Do whatever you want to me, all right? I’m the one who did this to you, Crowley. Dean’s… Dean can’t… And Cas-”

“Release me, Sam.” Crowley holds up his wrists, a promise of a fate worse than death in his eyes. “Now.”

It would surprise Crowley that Moose listens on the second try, if he were in the mood for amusement. But Crowley is not. His stare remains on the bed. Wheezing, shallow breaths echo behind hunched shoulders.

The restraints come free with a clang. Sam removes the collar last, unlocking at the nape of Crowley’s neck. Crowley feels the dull cut of leather where the collar once rested. A stripe of red marks his vessel’s skin. This should be the first ill Crowley cures with his restored power. But for now, it can wait.

“Leave us,” he says.

“Crowley…” Sam starts. But no, he has no right. Not after everything.

Crowley doesn’t even bother with a glare. “Leave us.”

Sam’s mouth tightens with disapproval. But from the sink to his shoulders, he will not put up a fight.

The bedroom door shuts with a clink.

Crowley removes his shoes, rubbing at the sting left behind on his wrists. 

He climbs onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. When Castiel glances at him, Crowley sees the slices across his face. Claw marks, no doubt from the nails of the demon-bitch. His skin is swollen and bruised. 

The bird squints through one somewhat-open eye. “Humanity…is overrated,” Castiel says. He tries for a smile. It comes out like a grimace and fades to a shaking frown.

Crowley huffs. “You're a moron,” he mutters. “And a pathetic excuse for a human.” Castiel chuckles. Abaddon did not succeed in breaking his sense of humor, at least.

Crowley begins with his face. For selfish reasons, he’ll admit. He rests fingers on Castiel’s forehead, the heel of his palm in his hair. Castiel turns towards him, hissing as the friction on his torn back. 

But he manages to tuck himself against Crowley’s side. His eyes close as Crowley mutters under his breath. The wounds begin to dry and dissolve.

“I’m surprised you didn’t leave,” Castiel murmurs.

Crowley snorts. “No, you’re not.” The accusation makes his little ape smile. 

Castiel’s face is soon clean enough that he can open his eyes in full. “You’re going to drain yourself,” he says.

“Shut up,” Crowley grumbles.

It’s true, of course. After being bound for so long, he can already feel the spell work wearing on his vessel. It’s likely he won’t be able to complete the full fix in one go. But he can mend enough. Besides, the dummy should have to deal with a little pain. It’s what he gets for being stupid enough to get ripped to shreds in the first place.

The tipping point is the ribs. A snap back into place, a gasp from Castiel, and a sudden weight hits Crowley’s chest. His fingers clench against Castiel’s forehead. 

“That’s enough, Crowley. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Crowley mutters, “You’re an idiot.” He slumps back on the bed frame. Draped over pillows with Castiel’s head against his chest.

“You’re free.” Castiel traces the red welts on his wrists. Ah, yes, those. They, too, need mending. In a moment or two.

“Yes,” Crowley mumbles. He closes his eyes.

“Free to go,” Castiel presses. He sounds alarmed.

Crowley sighs and buries his hand in Castiel’s hair. He laces the strands through his fingers. “The things I do for you,” Crowley grouses. 

Castiel may say his name again. Crowley does not know or care. Blasted angel. Who knew playing the hero could be so exhausting?

***

Crowley wakes. Which means he slept. Damn. 

Humanity is a disease. But there are aspects to it that Crowley misses. Top of his list is the ability to sleep. Funny, this is the thing that mankind would likely trade if they could. Their lifespans are so short. Sleep wastes their precious few minutes allotted on this rock.

But for Crowley, hundreds of human years old, sleep is a rare and beautiful luxury. 

As Crowley blinks into the room, he feels restored. There is still an emptiness inside, a hollow core where the power of Hell once resided. But he feels more himself. He feels, yes, free.  
Ironic given the monkey pinning him to the bed. 

Castiel looks far better. Color has returned to his cheeks. Any lingering scar lines are faint. Crowley notes his broken wrist and the wrapped foot dangling across the mattress. Today’s to-do list. They will not drain him as yesterday’s tasks did.

And once the kitten is fully mended, Crowley can be off. In his own time. If he chooses to leave.

Crowley rolls his eyes towards the door. He felt the weight of their gazes before, but it was easier to ignore them. It is always easier to ignore Winchesters. “What?” he grumbles. 

From his chest, Castiel sighs. Crowley realizes he has a hand between the ex-angels’s shoulders, slowly rubbing the place where wings should be. 

This is a soft look for a demon of his status. Crowley makes up for it with a glare at the source of his discomfort. Sam clears his throat awkwardly. Dean raises his brow, far too amused. “Uh…” Sam composes himself first. “The First Blade. You can track it with that Elomite spell?”

“I can track anything,” Crowley asserts. He pauses with a thoughtful shake of his head. “It will be tricky. Long buried, that blade. Cain designed it this way.”

“We need it,” Dean says. “To kill Abaddon. We get the Blade, she’s dead. And you get your party downstairs back.”

“What’s left of the place,” Crowley mutters. Funny, the Winchesters willingly handing back his kingdom of evil. Circumstances make strange bedfellows. 

…Literally. Crowley snorts, glancing at his sleeping pet.

His eyes are drawn back to Dean though. More specifically, the scar standing proud on his arm. “Be careful, Squirrel,” he adds. “It’s a curse, the Mark. But not one to trifle with.”

“A curse can be removed, though,” Sam jumps in. “Can’t it?”

“Any curse can be removed,” Crowley says. “How, though…” He shrugs. 

“We’’ll find a way.” This rumbling voice does not belong to either Winchester. It comes from a drowsy Castiel, yawning his way into awareness. Sam and Dean both look uncomfortable now. Castiel grits his teeth, awkward too. But he manages a more hopeful smile. “We’ll find a way, Dean,” he repeats.

“Yeah, this is weird,” Dean mumbles. He jabs Sam in the side with an elbow. “There’s, um, coffee downstairs. And stuff.” He turns to leave, but not before Crowley hears, “If you’re sticking around.” Fancy that.

Poor Moose, not always as quick on the uptake. He lingers after Dean’s departure, eyeing the bed like it slighted him personally. 

Crowley may be a bit soft of late, but he isn’t about to miss this chance. He drags a hand up Castiel’s back. A slow, sweet stroke. Crowley’s fingers end in his hair, ruffling it into a delightful mess. He places a kiss to the top of the ex-angel’s head. Castiel knows exactly what Crowley is up to. His scowl says to quit it.

But it is too late. Sam blanches like he’s seen a… Well, he doesn’t blanch when he sees ghosts, does he? Nonetheless, Sam retreats quickly from the room. 

Crowley allows himself a laugh as he stretches. Angel limbs splay all over him, but he does not mind the added weight.

Alone together, Cas is more agreeable. He straddles Crowley’s thighs with a comfortable sigh. “This is odd,” Castiel says.

Crowley chuckles. “Quite.” He cocks his head. “What are you feeling?”

Castiel pauses to consider this, eyes rolled back. “Comfortable,” he decides. “Familiar.”

“Hm.” Crowley may not feel emotion himself, but he senses something similar. He takes hold of Castiel’s injured hand. “First…” Crowley concentrates energy on the fractured bone.

This concentration is ruined by the mouth that covers his. Crowley grunts his annoyance. He tries to stay focused on the melding of bone, even when Castiel parts his lips. He teases Crowley’s with his tongue, mouth nice and open, welcoming a taste. Castiel damn-near groans when his wrist fuses. 

Crowley pushes him over and gets on top. Work done, he is happy to take Castiel up on the invitation. 

Castiel puts the mended hand to good use. He winds his arms around Crowley’s waist, forcing more of his weight down. Crowley drags his tongue up the roof of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel shudders beneath him, a mess of goosebumps and stuttered breaths. Devils, Crowley wants him.

As wondrous as this is, parting is just as welcome, if only to hear Castiel gasp. Castiel’s cheeks are flushed. Oxygen deprived, mouth swollen and wet, hair a mess from Crowley’s fingers.

“You feel a whole lump of things, don’t you?" Crowley murmurs. He drags his thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip, collecting wetness.

"Yes.” Castiel sounds fascinated. Wide-eyed and curious.

Crowley smirks. “So many places to touch… What will you feel now, Castiel?” His fingers slide down Castiel’s chest. He marvels at Castiel’s hitching breaths. His eyes glaze to the side, then snap back to focus. 

Castiel jumps under him, startled by his own reaction. He is clearly afraid. And far more excited.

“Are you staying?” The question blurts out of Castiel so fast that even he does not seem to know it’s coming. 

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Am I staying?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

Castiel grits his teeth. He does not make eye contact when he mutters, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Yes,” Castiel repeats, this time with a glare.

Crowley shrugs. He props his head up on a hand, elbow settled next to Castiel’s shoulder. “My topside retreats are likely not safe. Abaddon will have discovered them by now. Hell is a mess, I can feel its chaos.” He chuckles under his breath. “For now, this is the safest place to be, I suppose.”

“Good,” Castiel grumbles. He sounds quite miffed, the poor kitten. Even human, he is a prideful thing. Vulnerability makes him grumpy. 

Crowley hums thoughtfully. “Good?” His hungry stare swallows Castiel’s repaired torso. 

He drapes a casual hand over Castiel’s waist. The waistband of his underwear is eased down with a thumb. Crowley scrapes the finger into the dent of Castiel’s hip. Castiel sucks in a breath. Crowley actually sees the goosebumps plump up on his skin. Something else rises too, an enticing fullness in the crotch of Castiel’s boxers.

“I would classify my staying as 'very good.'” Crowley repeats the dip of his thumb, this time with more nail. Castiel bites his lip, but Crowley hears the faintest slip of a whimper. “Wouldn’t you, Cas?”

“Very good,” Castiel grits. He tries to glare, but the poor love can’t hide his blatant want. His pupil-wide eyes are quite entrancing, glinting dark like a demon’s stare.

“Very, _very_ good,” Crowley murmurs. He slides a hand under Castiel’s underwear and emerges with his cock. 

Castiel groans. “Very, very good,” he whispers. “Crowley…don’t…”

Crowley releases him immediately. Castiel makes a sound of loss. 

“What?” Crowley grumbles. Perhaps its his own fault for pushing the ape too quickly. Castiel has feelings and all. Dreadful things. But Crowley wants him badly, and this setback is annoying.

Apparently, he’s read the situation wrong. Castiel grabs Crowley’s hand and pulls it back into his lap. He forces Crowley to sink between his thighs. It is a position change that Crowley accommodates gladly. He shoves Castiel’s bunched boxers around his knees.

“Don’t toy with me,” Castiel says. He holds his head high, affecting a posture reminiscent of his old self. “I…” He pauses, less certain, and clears his throat. “I feel too much.”

“Oh, Cas,” Crowley purrs. He winds one hand around Castiel’s cock. The other slides into Castiel’s hair. He leans up to smile against his old partner’s lips. “Feeling makes it so much more fun.”

Without warning, Crowley pulls Castiel’s hair back and fists his cock. Castiel moans loudly, body twisting towards his. Crowley devours his open mouth with glee. 

Perhaps he will stick around longer than anticipated. Safety in numbers and what not. And there are perks to this location. Old delights, made new again.

***

Crowley enters the kitchen a good while later. He has borrowed a pair of Castiel’s sweats and one of those damned flannel shirts. He’s rolled up the sleeves, unwilling to tolerate any taunts about the physical limits of his chosen vessel.

Dean chokes on his coffee when he sees Crowley. Yes, it is one of Dean’s shirts then. Sam lifts a bemused brow.

“I am still restoring myself,” Crowley growls. “Once I do, I will replenish my wardrobe. This is the _last_ time you will see me in this stupid thing.”

“Thank God for that,” Dean mutters. “Or the Devil.”

Crowley snorts. “Neither." 

He eyes the pot of coffee, still half-filled. Crowley pulls it out, then looks at the closed cabinets. Mugs, mugs… He waves a finger, and they all fly open at once. Behind him, Moose nearly has a seizure.

"Ah, there we are,” Crowley says. He plucks a black mug from the shelf. With another wave of his finger, the cabinets shut again. 

“A little warning next time?” Sam balks.

Crowley smiles mid-pour. “If I remember, sunshine.”

Castiel trudges in. He is walking fine, foot repaired after Crowley’s other desires were met. He is delightfully disheveled, flannel pants hanging off a body in a fine sweat. In need of a shower perhaps? 

Crowley hides his smirk mid-sip. He wonders how large the tub is in this dump.

Castiel does not say a word, just grabs the pot of coffee from Crowley. He knows which cabinet has the mugs on the first try. Pours himself a cup and drinks it black, no sugar or cream. Good man. At least his human taste buds have some sense.

The four look at each other, silent and sipping.

Dean smacks a hand on the kitchen table. “All right, ground rules. Number one, warn before using magic unless necessary.” He eyes Crowley.

Crowley shrugs. “Not my fault Moose is a screamer.” Sam grits his teeth. 

“Two - pants. At all times.” Dean jabs a finger at Sam. “You.” Then, at Cas. “And you.” He doesn’t even bother with the finger at Crowley. “Especially you.”

“As I recall, you’re the man whore in this bunch,” Crowley says. 

“Three.” Dean ignores him. “No fucking PDA.” He sweeps a finger between Castiel and Crowley for emphasis.

Castiel tilts his head, “What is-”

“No kinky stuff in public,” Crowley says.

Sam looks about ready to gouge his own eyes out. 'Kinky stuff’ he mouths at Dean.

Castiel frowns. His expression is far too grave for this ridiculous conversation. “The last thing I would want to do is cause discomfort,” he says. “This is your home. I’m more than happy to respect it.”

“Thank you,” Dean accepts, with a dark look at Crowley. “See? Manners.”

“You kept me chained in a bloody sex dungeon, and I’m the one with no manners?” Crowley crosses his arms. 

“Add on,” Sam jumps in. “No sex in the sex dungeon." 

"And no more demons in here,” Dean continues. He glares at Castiel. “Or angels. No bringing anyone in at all. All visitors have to be pre-approved by committee.”

“Animals?” Castiel asks.

“No animals,” Crowley and Dean snap together. Castiel looks a bit hurt, but nods.

“Might I suggest something?” Crowley asks.

Sam and Dean say “No” in unison.

Crowley ignores them. “An upgrade in the liquor department, perhaps? Come on, boys. The local frat houses would be embarrassed by your selection. We’re all adults, are we not?”

“You want it, you buy it,” Sam says.

Fair enough. But Crowley scoffs. “Buy,” he echoes, chortling.

Dean releases a long breath before he looks at his brother. “I’m good, I think,” he says. “You?”

“For now,” Sam agrees. 

Castiel smiles between them, looking far too touched by this whole situation. 

Crowley sighs. This is all rather nauseating. But, what the hell. If his decision is to stay, might as well make the most of it. He looks at Moose. “So, what have you got on the First Blade?”

Sam hesitates, understandably. This arrangement is still bizarre for all involved. But he snaps out of it. “Yeah, um. Here, my laptop’s in the study.”

Crowley trails him out of the room. He notes the look exchanged by the ex-angel and Squirrel before they depart.

***

**Epilogue:**

It is still strange a few weeks later. But this new arrangement has become…tolerable.

Remaining with the boys was necessary, it turns out. Hell is, indeed, in upheaval, the walls of the old palace torn down. Charred framework is all that remain of his cavernous domain. All have not sided with Abaddon, but the majority are too weak to combat her rule. His own trust has turned against him, owing allegiance out of fear. Spineless sods.

A few safe houses remain, but Crowley does not go to them. There are trackers everywhere, waiting to report his comings and goings to Abaddon. Inside the bunker, he does not have to worry about his presence being felt. Until he is good and ready to make an impression, that is.

He sits in the study, pouring over open books and case files. The Men of Letters were crude, but their acquisition of knowledge is impressive. Crowley considers himself well-studied, always hungry to learn. Knowledge is power, after all. But even he has discovered new truths about the nature of the Knights and the Blade. There is much in these scribbles. Angels and demons, all manner of monsters, spell work and curses. Fascinating.

A hitched breath catches his attention. He raises eyes from his studies to find a distressed Castiel. “Yes?” Crowley asks.

He raises a brow when Castiel turns his face against his sleeve. He stifles one sneeze, then two, then three. Bloody hell. When he comes up for air, he’s sniffling, the most watery perplexed look on his face. “I seem to be…experiencing something,” Castiel says. His words break as his nose flares. His eyes glass over with tears.

Crowley props his head against a fist. “Your first allergies,” he murmurs. “How adorable.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I simply spent time outdoors. The weather turned. I wanted to,” A sneeze, “wanted to see the,” A sneeze, “blossoms. Everything is so,” A sneeze, “…ugh, what is this?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. He entices with a handkerchief, an embroidered “C” in black thread. Custom design, of course. “Angel of the Lord with a pollen allergy,” He snorts. “I've seen everything now.”

Castiel looks quite annoyed, with Crowley and with his stuffed nose. He snatches the handkerchief without thanks, wiping his face. He sneezes a few more times, groaning his mounting frustration. His voice is already hitching on a fresh fit. Castiel mutters his displeasure behind the fabric.

Crowley turns his chair. Whether the bird wants it or not, he has Crowley’s full attention now. 

He hooks his thumbs into Castiel’s belt loops and draws him forward by the jeans. Noses up the hem of his t-shirt and licks the soft line of hair from his denim waist to his belly button. “Poor kitten,” he murmurs. His hands slide around to Castiel’s thighs. They hook around his legs, urging him closer.

Castiel groans again, for a different reason this time. He rubs his nose furiously, making the tip pink. “I am not your kitten,” he says.

Crowley smirks. His fingers stroll lazily up the seam lines on his thighs. The trails are followed to his crotch. Crowley digs fingers into the denim, making Castiel gasp and jerk over him. “You know what might help.” Crowley speaks against the waist of Castiel’s jeans, then lower. He nuzzles against his crotch. 

Castiel weakens. His balled hands prop on Crowley’s shoulders for balance. “Shower?” Castiel guesses. He twists his head to the side. 

“Gold star, love,” Crowley’s voice vibrates against the front of Castiel’s jeans. Castiel loses balance, one knee catching his weight on the front of Crowley’s chair.

Castiel laughs under his breath. “This is a disaster,” he states. “My eyes are leaking.”

Crowley tips his head back. He decides to raise his pet’s ire, murmurs a sweet, “My poor chimp.” Castiel can only muster a moment’s glare before sneezing again. He sniffs mournfully.

Crowley chuckles. He traces a patient thumb up the zipper at the front of Castiel’s jeans. The swell beneath is noticeable now. Castiel makes a sound low in his throat. 

“I’d be happy to assist,” Crowley offers. He keeps his tone light and expression teasing to hide the discomfort in his own slacks. 

They both glance up at the sound of a door lock snapping open. Before Crowley can act, Castiel has him by the hand and is dragging him out of the study. “No PDA,” he mutters.

“You are no fun,” Crowley remarks. Blame the red eyes, but the thought of the Wonder Twins catching them in the act nearly makes Crowley cackle with glee. 

Castiel says nothing until they are both locked inside the bathroom. Here, he still does not speak, but my, does he act. Castiel pushes Crowley back on the door and kisses him. His leg presses between Crowley’s thighs, tearing impatiently at his shirt. 

Crowley forgets rankling the boys. This is far sweeter.

Crowley removes himself from under Castiel’s body long enough to back to the shower stall. He turns the facet handle. Water and steam come to life.

He removes the rest of his clothing as Castiel watches. His pet’s shirt is already off. A marvelous view, tattoo warding wound around his ribs. Castiel’s jeans sit unzipped, quite the tease.

Two can play this game. “Come, angel,” Crowley calls. He climbs into the stall. Surprise, surprise. Crowley does not need to ask twice.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) too :)


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